Viva la Vida
by Lizard Pie
Summary: Treaties can do horrible things to a country, just as the loss of territory can. England tries to cope when he's forced to deal with both on a massive scale.


Rain beat against the windowsill. The drops exploded in tiny crowns in the puddles created on the seat of a chair. It was stained, but it was for interior use and all this water would most certainly ruin it. He should have gotten up and closed the window, the window should have been already closed since he'd read about an almost 100% probability of rain that morning in the paper, but England didn't bother to move.

He couldn't bring himself to do anything more than lay on his bed, on top of the comforter, and watch the water seep into the cherry wood.

France had found a way around it, he was sure, but of course absolutely nobody would have been surprised by that. The first instance where it didn't spring to life immediately, England was sure that pervert had rushed to anyone he could think of to set it right again. Spain was probably just fine, as well, because he was the two of them were quick to pass things between each other. England was a neighbor, as much as they were, but had never been part of that little club. Which was just fine, he'd never liked either of them anyway.

England had to wonder if he'd just not been noticing a slow progression, or if it was really as fast as he'd assumed. It wasn't hard to imagine the latter. When something was implemented with a treaty, the effects could be felt the second the first signee touched their pen to the paper, or the second skin brushed before a handshake. He wasn't a stranger to treaties, just as all the old men like him weren't.

It was why they hadn't so much as blinked when the two Germans began writhing and gasping during their multiple dissolutions, or when they stood back up relatively unscathed as the FRG and the GDR respectively. It was why England had done nothing but chuckle when all of America's youthful optimism and babbling of peace was replaced with the horror of what the rest of the world really was.

Speaking of his former colony… England was sure that, did he catch America in the same position he was in now, he probably would be saying something. England would have lectured him that the comforter wasn't a blanket, and that he'd catch a horrible cold if he went to bed still wet, naked, and in a freezing room. That illness would spread to Germany, to Sweden, to the Soviets, to France, to England himself until the entire world (or close to it) was at least sniffling. It was irresponsible and disgusting to be so callous to everyone else.

England looked down the length of his body, and didn't admire but noted how his bare skin glistened with the wet spray of the rain. He decided that, at the moment, he would very much like to affect the rest of the world. Adversely or otherwise, it honestly didn't matter.

What he'd really like was to set sail again. The combination of a sword in his hand, the smell of gunpowder mixing with the sea spray that hit his face… That was always enough to get the blood flowing. So was colonizing, of course. He smirked a bit in memory of how successful that always was.

A smirk which, unfortunately, didn't last long. The memory was usually enough to get him at least the slightest bit exhilarated. But the knowledge that those days were over was more than enough to keep him cold, shriveled, and infuriatingly static.

But what more could he do? Just a few decades before, and he'd essentially ruled the entire world. Millions upon millions of kilometers of resource-rich land that was just sitting there, barbaric and begging to be infused with his special brand of refinement.

He'd lost nearly 16 million this decade.

He was due to lose nearly 2 million in the next.

There was… That left somewhere in the realm of 4 million that he was assured he'd also lose. He was threatened, firmly, that he was to gain absolutely no more. And he had promised, of course, but he was far too infamous for anyone to believe that he'd been serious. Because of that, they'd implemented treaties; they'd signed them with more vigor than was honestly necessary. It was sick, childish glee that had been used when they told him that he was going to be confined to his own house. Even more so when they forced him to watch his other homes get torn down.

They'd wanted him to be humiliated, which he was, they'd wanted him to be angry, which had also been achieved. But they'd wanted him to cry over it, or something like that. They'd expected him to scream and rave, and he did nothing but laugh about the fact that they'd had such expectations. It was as if they thought gentleman cried, or as if you got to the point of ruling over that much land by breaking down when you lost a few kilometers.

… Quite a few kilometers.

But, even if he didn't cry, he was still affected. They'd made sure he felt it, and made sure that he lost things much more permanent and important than the ever-changing land borders.

Not that proper gentlemen spoke about such things; that would just be disgraceful. Even if he wasn't what he had been, even if (unless he destroyed those bloody treaties) he probably never would be again, there as still no point in pretending that he was some sort of uncouth…

It wasn't as if he were his little brother or something; the one that was very happy to take over one of the very, very few remaining positions as an empire even if he wouldn't admit to the title. Russia, at least, had the decency not to deny it.

That chair had to be irreparably ruined at this point, and somewhere in his mind he felt rather guilty about that. It had probably been a gift or something at one point, and as such there was nothing to do but feel bad about letting it die a premature, unnecessary death like he was. It was unbearable that he had done such a thing. He had to distract himself from the peeling finish and the soon-to-be rotting wood underneath.

He moved or, rather, he tried to move, as he filled his mind with orientalist fantasies. He thought of native women with glistening mocha skin. He thought of rich fields of crops and factories that sent him unimaginable amounts of money, and trading all that which sent him even more as he constructed monopolies. He dreamed of his neat houses, and how amazing it was to return to them after sometimes months at sea.

He dreamed of his colonies running to greet him with all the wealth they could provide. Before he was shunned from the territory, and those children he'd left behind were shunned where they'd been forced to stay; even if they still had any power worth considering.

There was no distraction, unfortunately. Regardless of the fact he was beyond tired of remembering, that he didn't want to think at all about what had been removed from him, there was nothing else to do. He was cold, and without his tropical territories there was no end in sight. He'd simply get colder and colder…

Of course, they weren't opposed to letting him keep his claims in Antarctica, the sadistic bastards that they were.

There was no more time for this foolish angst, though. Tomorrow a new decade would begin. He would have more territories to be reminded that he'd taught them dignity enough not to cry for him and be embarrassing to what remained of his own pride. As a proper gentleman, he had significantly more than necessary left within him to hold his head high and dare the world to think they'd defeated him.

He'd dare them to think that the British Empire had become all it was because he was weak. They could take everything away from him, and they were going about it in the best way they knew how, but he'd never let them see it. He'd never, ever, let them know that it had affected him; much less that it was eating him up from the inside out.

He was sure it would until he could find a way around this; which meant he might just be forced to head to France. Or, even more horrifyingly, to America (because he'd heard from sources he wouldn't name that America was doing more than his share of research). He'd do something… probably undercover just to show that he could still fool every one of them.

He'd also get a new chair, since that one was long gone. It was peeled and rotten, and would smell of mold shortly. Disgraceful.

Once again denied the want of just a simple, successful, wank, England resigned himself to sleep.


End file.
